Brazing (Forged in Fire #2) by Rachel Higginson, Lila Felix Page A

honking as they passed, and then crossed together, holding hands and giggling the entire way. I found myself smiling again in her presence, something I wasn’t used to.
    I hadn’t regularly smiled since my mom was around.
    Everyone thought the death of our parents was hardest on Stockton because he took the brunt of the responsibility after they died. He took in Willa, took over my parents’ work, the whole bit without one word of complaint.  And he’d done a fine job, no one would argue that for a second. Not even me.
    And poor Willa, she was just a girl starting out when she lost them.
    But I missed them just as much.
    I think Stockton missed my father the most. I could’ve been very wrong about that, but he spent the most time with him. Dad taught Stockton everything he knew—even his little trips to town to help everyone out. He thought no one knew and I let him have it that way. All of us were close. I’d kill anyone who tried to mess with Stockton, West or Will. But it was a known fact that Willa and Stock were like mashed potatoes and gravy and West and I were the same. West made me angry enough to strangle him sometimes, but I’d pummel anyone who messed with him at the same time—the pecker head.
    That was the kind of comment my mom would’ve popped me on the back of the head with a rolling pin for.
    I missed my mom. I missed her every day. It struck me at odd times like that one, watching the girls cross the street with an anxiety-ridden pull in my stomach and not just about the singing or the crowded place. Tate scared me.
    Maybe my mourning hit me when things happened in my life that I would usually call her up and tell her about.
    I would’ve definitely called her and told her about Tate.
    My mom knew about Jesse. She knew the whole thing. I made her swear not to tell anyone, even Dad. I didn’t want Jesse uncomfortable coming around the house to see Willa or anyone.
    And though she deserved every bit of it, I didn’t want her reputation ruined—or smeared all over town.
    Jesse did a good enough job of that all by herself.
    My mom took my secret to the grave. When it happened a second time, Stockton and Cami were already involved and I couldn’t talk to Willa—it was her best friend. So I talked to West.
    Shit, I was such a mama’s boy.
    “You must be Bridge,” the brunette, suddenly in front of me, extended her hand. I’d been in my thoughts way too long.
    “I am Bridger. And you are?” I extended the pronunciation of the R like a toaster in the middle of an electrical mishap.
    See? Bridge r , it’s just an R. You can do it. All of you.
    “Well Bridger, I’m Carter. And we know you know Tate. She’s been telling us all kinds of stories about you two having fun at the crick.”
    She tried very hard to say creek like crick. It was a pitiful hillbilly accent if I’d ever heard one.
    I wondered what kinds of stories Tate had been telling her.
    Tate responded with a fierce blush that extended all the way down into her black top and probably far beyond that. At least that was a plus. I could still make her blush.
    “Why don’t we go in where it’s very loud and not a good place for storytelling,” Tate offered in a blatant attempt to take the attention away from herself.
    “After you,” I waved them inside.
    God, I really don’t want to go in here.
    I did the gentlemanly thing and paid the entrance fee for the three of us to get in. Carter stood aside like she expected the gesture while Tate loudly protested.
    “I can pay for myself. This is not a date.”
    “No one said it was a date, Ms. Self-Reliance. But I’m a Southern boy and my mama didn’t raise a scoundrel.”
    “A scoundrel! This boy is priceless,” Carter cackled. “Tate, when you go home, find me one of these boys, pretty, pretty please. I need a piece of Southern ass. I wonder if he’d ask permission before he—never mind.”
    She stopped her sentence as my eyes and Tate’s widened in sync at her